


Pleurosis

by SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Lack of Communication, M/M, Medical Procedures, Surgery, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love, Viktuuri Angst Bang 2019, rivals-ish, there’s a happy ending I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: Viktor doesn't take Yuuri up on his offer at the Sochi banquet, but someone else does.Depersonalized, depressed, and doubting that he'll make it through another season of marketing himself to an uncaring public, Viktor finds himself ill at Worlds, and nothing he does seems to help.When Yakov takes on a new skater, Viktor's health takes a turn for the worse and he's suddenly faced with a dire choice.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 33
Kudos: 95
Collections: Viktuuri Angst Bang 2019





	1. why is there water in my eye?

**Author's Note:**

> Check out Rettlecake's beautiful art in the original posting [on Tumblr](https://rettlecake.tumblr.com/post/190407470240/my-art-for-viktuuriangstbang-based-on)!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we made a killer from a lover from a memory  
> what made distruction so appealing to a human being?

The air in the Radisson Blu banquet hall was stifling as Viktor polished off his third glass of champagne.  _ Third. _ Mamochka once said, “Three is becoming, four is brutish, and that’s only if you can hold it.” Viktor could definitely hold it. He couldn’t tell if he was tipsy or just exhausted. In any case, he wanted to get out of there as soon as he could manage. He’d already been dragged into the most nauseating of conversations with reps from two of his biggest sponsors. They’d been full of idle chatter and the same old pleasantries that always arose at this kind of event. Viktor accepted congratulations with grace, and in return he offered a few quips and memorable smiles—the kind he’d practiced to be private and pointed, meant to make their recipients feel like they genuinely have the interest of  _ The _ Viktor Nikiforov.

It’d been a trick taught to him over a decade ago now by Lilia. That way, even as he was being dogged by reporters on his way out of practice or bombarded with interviews when his legs were threatening to give out after a free skate, he was always press-ready. The entire thing was humiliating, shameful in a way that only left room for him to turn his anger inward on himself. It was the knuckle digging into his last nerve, the inevitable truth of his success that he wished he could just escape.

God, he wished he could escape. Anywhere would be fine, even within the confines of this cookie-cutter hotel. There was an indoor swimming pool. Melting away into climate-controlled waters with that soft, intimate lighting hotel pools always seemed to have… that would be nice. That would feel good on aching muscles and provide some numbing white noise while Viktor tried to dissolve into something unrecognizable and loosely-defined.

Alcohol was honestly helping immensely in that endeavor. Forget ‘becoming’. Viktor was wandering over to the table in pursuit of his fourth glass of the slightly-too-sweet bubbly when something—some _ one _ —barreled into his side, knocking him off balance and just nearly managing not to spill their own drink on his second-favorite suit.

(The first-favorite was reserved for personal events only, but Viktor almost never found an occasion to wear it anymore.)

“I, uh… Oh.”

Brown eyes. Big. Beautiful. Made of chocolate and velvet and copper all at once. Viktor recognized those eyes, too. They’d burned on him for the past week, another case of his knack for falling under unfaltering scrutiny. But _he…_ _He_ was different. Because Viktor had been watching Katsuki Yuuri this week, too.

This whole season, actually.

See, something was eating away at Viktor’s sanity with Katsuki Yuuri—something he couldn’t quite place a finger on. It came out when he skated, this mystical instrument of a man painting music into the most graceful of shapes out on the ice. Katsuki was like the delicate little wind-up ballet dancer that spun atop Viktor’s jewelry box as a kid. If he didn’t know any better, he could almost believe that Japan’s Ace could command music with his very movements, and not the other way around.

What was even more, Yuuri seemingly practiced Viktor’s choreography obsessively, or so his step sequences seemed to suggest. He saw nods to his  _ Prince Igor _ routine in this year’s free skate. Viktor had studied thirty skaters’ programs to make sure the moves he’d incorporated into that program were unique. They were so uncommon that he’d heard more than one commentator reference the connection. Viktor’s breath hadn’t caught in his throat for another skater like that in years.

His  _ Prince Igor _ routine had been a part of his  _ longing _ program. The plaintive, cathartic themes of both pieces had sprung from the loneliest year in Viktor’s life before this one. He’d moved to St. Petersburg, had gone from living among a loving family to living alone, throwing himself into his work, missing holidays and traditions. That year, all he’d wanted was to go home and be with his Mamochka and Mamulya, but they’d moved to Bulgaria, and he’d insisted on staying. Some of his favorite customs, like long Sunday breakfasts and Mamulya’s birthday tea-and-shopping, were left by the wayside. He didn’t even make it home for his their annual New Years’ First Light celebration.

He didn’t know what had drawn Yuuri to the  _ Prince Igor _ choreography, but he had designed those moves out of desperation, grasping at thin air and hoping he could find in it some surrogate sense of warmth. He hated admitting that every program since then had been devoted to a comfort that never came, some grand  _ other _ that he never seemed to get right. He’d tried everything, at some point or another, to fill the hole in his heart. He’d traveled the world, tried the most enviable foods in some of the most enviable cities, filled his closets with designer labels, all perfectly tailored and pristinely laundered. He’d frequented high-profile events and parties for a while, rubbing elbows with others who had achieved his level of celebrity, and had even become close with a few. It didn’t matter. That world was lonely. The few trysts it had landed him were one-sided and frustrating, ultimately dissipating into disappointment and self-loathing within a few weeks.

Viktor didn’t need to wonder if Katsuki Yuuri truly understood the pain and isolation that had given rise to  _ Prince Igor. _ He knew, just watching Yuuri’s routines that they had more in common than a love for the ice. People who put on a show of emotions have a very different way of moving than those who feel them implicitly. Actors can summon emotion through a series of movements associated with a similar feeling, can waste fractions of a second conjuring something already found in those whose chests already burn. Yuuri’s expressions, the movements of his arms and his shoulders as he danced across the ice, the takeoffs into his jumps, they all burst from the same point in his chest. Viktor could see why a skater with such sloppy technical elements had come this far. When Yuuri danced, he commanded a crowd transfixed until the moment he stopped.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri stammered. “I was running away from a… well… okay, that doesn’t matter…” He mumbled something to himself that Viktor couldn’t quite decipher before shoving a drink into Viktor’s hands. “You need another one of these! You won! Not that that would surprise you, I guess, since you  _ always _ win, but—”

A glass of room-temperature champagne was pressed into Viktor’s hand. It was strange; for what felt like a jab, Yuuri spoke with stars in his eyes. Viktor took the drink, peeking over his shoulder to make sure Yakov wasn’t watching.

“If I’m right in assuming you’re running from either your coach or your sponsors, that would make two of us,” he said, tipping the glass in Yuuri’s direction. “To laying low and getting through the evening?”

Yuuri clinked his glass against Viktor’s, sloshing a bit of his own champagne into Viktor’s cup in the process, and threw the rest of the glass back in two gulps. “It’d be pretty funny,” he sighed, setting his glass on the table a little haphazardly and sending it toppling sideways, “if the winner and the loser of the GPF went and danced together.”

Just as Viktor was about to argue that there was no such thing as a ‘loser’ in this kind of competition, Yuuri had him by the arm, dragging him across the floor to the empty space where dancing was encouraged. It was probably for the better; those kind of reassurances would feel pretty cheap coming from a four-time world champion.

Yuuri moved off the ice just as enticingly as he did on it. The dance floor, nearly empty when they first approached, quickly filled with competitors and spectators alike, and everyone’s focus was on Japan’s Ace himself. God, Viktor didn’t realize someone could be sweet, sensuous, and self-conscious all at once, but Yuuri definitely was—though the last of those was dwindling with every drink he downed.

Viktor used to enjoy a good, rowdy post-competition banquet. He used to place himself at the front of the action alongside his best friend and confidante, Christophe. Together, they were responsible for more than their share of nondisclosure emails from the ISU requesting that photos from the banquets not be shared in public forums. Hence, Mamochka’s aphorism about being able to hold one’s liquor. He’d since lost interest in that sort of thing and gained interest in strong sponsorship deals, so the half a moment’s hesitation he felt when Yuuri threw his jacket aside, loosened his tie, and dragged him to the floor for a dance-off seemed somewhat justified.

Then again, who was going to say no to the four-time world champion?

But all of that melted away when Yuuri pulled him close, an arm around his waist, and spun him around wildly, nearly sweeping him off his feet. The song changed, almost as if on cue, the thrum of Spanish guitars only reinforcing Viktor’s idea that Yuuri was one with the music. Somewhere on the fringe of the crowd, Viktor saw twin scowls on the faces of Yakov and young Yuri, who’d been gunning for his position as favorite from his first day in Juniors’. However, anything and everything melted away a moment later, save for Yuuri’s fingers pressing firmly into his side, leading him in a steamy  _ pas de deux _ with little regard for form or formality.

“Hey, you’re almost as good as me,” Yuuri joked, his hand coming up to tease along Viktor’s jawline as he spun outward, his hips swinging dangerously. 

“Not nearly,” Viktor breathed. He kept his feet moving in a desperate chase as Yuuri danced away, because  _ oh God, _ did he feel good against Viktor’s side. If more of that was on offer, Viktor was not going to let it pass, even if it meant getting put on rink detail once he got back to St. Petersburg for breaking conduct.

A few others got their turns too, including Yuri, who danced so aggressively it was clear he had something to prove, and Christophe, who was immediately clued in to Yuuri’s state and found his opportunity to revive the old days of debauched fun. Viktor couldn’t deny a pang of jealousy when that electrifying touch left his side, but he still got to watch Yuuri dance, carefree and captivating, and he couldn’t complain about that.

Somewhere in the middle of all the fun, Viktor found himself caught in Yuuri’s iron grip. Yuuri’s hand was sweaty on his wrist—it was clear he was hot from the delicious expanse of bare chest that was now peeking out from his dress shirt. Viktor silently thanked whatever gods were responsible for the modern death of the undershirt, because some sinful mix of wine and perspiration had also rendered what was left of Yuuri’s top translucent. The way that garment clung to its owner’s sides was a capital offense. It had Viktor secretly hoping, against his better judgement, that he was being dragged off to some bathroom stall somewhere to really escape. Or, better yet, maybe Yuuri was done with banqueting for the evening, and Viktor was the lucky recipient of one night in his hotel room.

He knew both of those were too good to be true. After all, Yuuri was more than one glass past plastered. It had only taken Viktor a few trysts to learn that drunken fun was usually less than its name. The potential for harm was nowhere near worth the clumsy, underwhelming action. So Viktor fantasized, but only that, and he was thrilled when Yuuri pulled him into a secluded little corner of the lobby, out of sight of anyone who might still be awake or wandering away from the party.

“God, I hate banquets.”

Beautiful and half-shirtless, and a man after Viktor’s own heart. An amazing dancer capable of captivating everyone around him. Viktor was in capital-T Trouble.

“Me too,” Viktor said almost by rote, leaning forward on his elbow and turning to better admire his impromptu date. Ruddy-faced and bleary-eyed, Yuuri covered his face with his hands and bellowed an incredulous laugh.

“You? Mr. Camera-Ready?” he chortled, leaving his palms to hang from his cheeks dazedly. “A night like tonight is practically in your honor; who wouldn’t love that?”

“I think you have me confused with the man out on the ice,” Viktor said, deflating a little. “People love him. No one cares once the skates are off.”

Yuuri snorted. “It’s like people don’t realize how much work goes into getting there.” He fell forward, dropping his head into the crook of his elbow. “Not that I have to worry about it; no one sees me either way.”

“I see you,” Viktor said, the hopeful pitch in his voice sort of pathetic as he heard it. “You have stronger step sequences than any of us, Yuuri. You should be confident in them.”

Yuuri shifted uncomfortably, burying his head between his forearms with a little whine.

“Well I’m not, okay?” he groaned. “There will always be some beautiful, talented, beautiful man with a gold streak to break. I can say this to you, because I know this is a dream.”

“This is a… I’m sorry?” Viktor asked. Of all the things for Yuuri to blurt out drunkenly, that wasn’t it.

“A dream.” Yuuri sighed. “In real life, Viktor would never have the time for someone like me. He’s bigger and more amazing than I ever could hope to aspire. There’s no way I could… anyway, it doesn’t matter. This is my dream, I might as well enjoy it, right?”

Oh.

How stupid Viktor was to hope. How naive to assume, their first real opportunity to talk, that Katsuki Yuuri wouldn’t have him up on a pedestal like everyone else. Viktor wasn’t a friend, not even a peer. He was a  _ dream.  _ Something unattainable, impermanent, incorporeal. To Yuuri, Viktor wasn’t a person, he was an idea.

It was so lonely so high above the world. It had been fun at first. Viktor had been flippant in his fame. It was amazing, the leverage it gave him. He didn’t like to think he was out of touch, but it was clear that everyone around him assumed him to be. As his platform rose higher and higher, connecting was harder and harder. That sort of isolation happened in plain sight. Why did no one ever question it but him? Why had no one extended a ladder, a step, anything? Was his only way down to jump?

Yuuri stretched lavishly over the edge of the table, his skin squeaking across its shiny surface, before rising precariously to his feet. “I left my tie… somewhere,” he mumbled, turning back out toward the banquet hall. “Do you think there's more champagne?”

“I hope there is,” Viktor said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake himself from yet another spiral that evening. When he opened them, Yuuri was already gone.

Shit. At least when he was alone, there was no pillar for him to stand atop. It was why his closest companion was his dog. God, he missed Makkachin. It wasn’t long before he’d be home with the only creature he knew to love him without the addition of contrived expectations. He’d have to tell her how, yet again, a date was even lonelier than being alone.

Not that Katsuki was a date. No, he couldn’t start down that path, either. The moment he affixed his own hopes onto something, he’d set himself up for disappointment. He’d sat with Katsuki for barely five minutes outside of a banquet they were both required to attend. And Katsuki clearly admired him,  _ the skater. _ He heard Viktor,  _ the gold medalist, _ not Viktor: vulnerable, touch-starved, and yearning for a connection.

Viktor used to cry at letdowns like this. Not anymore. He’d down another champagne or two, go back to his suite for a few glasses of water and an episode of Downton Abbey, and fall asleep before the end credits.

Post-banquet tradition.

When he pushed through the double doors that opened into the private banquet, Viktor found Yuuri back in Christophe’s clutches, this time wrapped around a shiny steel pole he was  _ sure _ hadn’t been there when they’d left. Whatever had been left of that sweat-soaked shirt was now nowhere to be seen, and Yuuri’s pants must have been with them, because the only thing keeping him presentable (for lack of a better word) was a pair of tight, blue boxer briefs that accentuated all his best assets. He’d found his tie, apparently, because it hung like the punchline of a dirty joke around his neck, brushing back and forth over his bare chest as he cycled through some impressive pole dance moves. Or at least, Viktor assumed they were impressive, based off of a limited knowledge supplied by Christophe and his level of attraction.

There must have been more champagne.

Viktor resolved to stick around until the pole dancing was inevitably shut down, no longer. He definitely wouldn’t offer to walk Yuuri back up to his room. He already knew he was no more a person to Japan’s Ace than Viktor’s idols had been to him. How much pushing would it take to break through and make a connection? Probably more than he was willing to endure.

It took surprisingly long for anyone to muster up the guts to coax Yuuri and Christophe down off the pole. Viktor could see Josef and Celestino commiserating over drinks nearby, but even they didn’t try to stop their skaters. Once the thing was taken down and Yuuri’s shirt had been handed back to him, Viktor went over to try and get Christophe back to his room. At best, Chris was always willing to help him chase away his loneliness no strings attached, and at the very least he could have someone to whine to as he drifted off into what he hoped would be a dreamless sleep.

“The life of the party as always, Chris,” he murmured, low enough to keep out of earshot of Yuuri.

Chris, whose eyes had yet to detach themselves from the opening in Yuuri’s shirt, nodded. “Yes, he certainly is.”

Viktor frowned. “I was talking about you,  _ mon beau,” _ he said, trying not to pout.

Chris swung his hips to gently collide with Viktor’s, his face full of mirth.

“I know, honey, but  _ look at him.” _

“Oh, I  _ have,” _ Viktor hummed, shifting his weight to keep that little bit of contact with his friend’s side. “He’s the only reason I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

Chris chuckled, bringing his arm around to pat Viktor’s side. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he purred. “Where were you two for so long?”

“It was barely five minutes, Chris.”

“Ah, well you know, when you’re excited…” Chris says with a playful smirk.

Viktor sighed, dropping his head onto his friend’s shoulder. “We talked a bit, he gushed about what a great skater I am, and then he came and rubbed his body all over you. It’s just not my night.”

They watched as Yuuri cast away his coach’s multiple attempts to get pants back on him, Viktor brushing his fingers hopefully against Chris’ side under his untucked shirt. Yuuri continued to dance, and he unsurprisingly found plenty still willing to join him. Without Chris, the atmosphere had shifted back to fun and silly instead of sexy, but Yuuri was a scrumptious sight wherever he went.

When Viktor let his hand drop to Chris’ hip, his friend pulled away with a sympathetic smile.

“Mon chéri, you’re about three weeks too late,” he said gently. “My boy toy and I just went exclusive.”

Viktor felt his mood drop instantly. Tonight had been doomed from the start. He should have stuck to his original plan.

“Not even traveling?” he asked, and Chris sighed, a dreamy, silly grin on his face.

“I know, can you imagine?” he mused. “I’m smitten, I’m afraid. Josef says he’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Damn, damn, damn, Viktor felt like an idiot. He even  _ knew _ Chris had been seeing someone; they’d talked about it extensively together during the competition. He didn’t know what had gotten into him, this desperate grasping at anyone who could fill the empty space around him. He should have expected that no one would be willing to climb up to meet him in the isolation he’d built for himself. Least of all, the hurting hopeful contender who’d had to listen to him bitch about being  _ too famous. _ How stupid could he be!?

He was never one to give up, though. He’d at least get Katsuki’s number, in case their paths crossed in slightly more sober circumstances. Maybe at Worlds? If Yuuri could make it to the GPF…

“Of course, how could I have forgotten?” he muttered, squeezing Chris’ hand once more as he pulled away. “Call me for breakfast, please?”

He broke off and made a course toward the dance floor. He couldn’t get pulled in, no matter how beautifully Yuuri moved. He’d get in, exchange contacts, and get out. At this point, he didn’t even want to watch TV. He’d do some shots at the hotel bar and pass out without any worry of the kind of lonesome dreams these events gave him.

Yuuri’s tie was now around his head, his pants and shoes sitting idly by the wall next to his exasperated coach, and when he saw Viktor, he practically melted.

“One more dance, Viktor!” he cried, latching on and pinning Viktor’s arms to his sides. For as long as they’d danced together, Viktor hadn’t had this kind of dizzying proximity yet, their bodies pressed close and Yuuri’s clouded eyes gazing adoringly up into his.

_ Fuck. _

Yuuri was still babbling in broken English, grinding against Viktor so shamelessly that he had to fight not to give in. “...and even though you got lost for a while, I just wanted to say I had a lovely time and I’m so glad we finally got to talk! And Viktor, I’ve been wanting to ask all night…”

Viktor held his breath, ready to spell out ‘y-e-s’ against those red, pouty lips. God, he was hopeless.

“Will you come to Japan and be my coach?”

Well.

“My parents own a hot spring, and you could come and stay with us! Be my coach, Viktor!”

Viktor hadn’t quite been expecting that. It wasn’t exactly common, was it? Skaters didn’t just ask their competitors to drop their competitive career to come and coach, right? He’d never seen it. He’d never heard anything like it.

Honestly, it wouldn’t have been a bad deal. A break away from the everyday, the monotony that has been drilling against his psyche for the past  _ however long. _ Japan was one of his favorite places to travel, after all. He’d love to enjoy it without the stress of a competition. But what would that mean for him? Was he ready to give up skating? Was he ready to be a  _ coach? _ Whatever the answer was to either of those, he definitely wasn’t ready to navigate the sloppy mix of professional and personal relationships. Coaching Yuuri almost definitely meant condemning himself to the torture of working alongside him without being able to get close to him. Or worse, getting close without being able to act on it. Taking a student only to date them later would be career suicide in this day and age. He wasn’t interested in that.

As they always were when Yuuri was involved, all eyes were turned expectantly in their directions, and Viktor needed to escape the allure of those hips as soon as humanly possible.

So he did what he had to. He ignored the pitiful way the life drained from those gorgeous amber-brown eyes. The way the arms that held him tightly fell dully at Yuuri’s sides. He turned and left without daring to meet the gaze of anyone around him, even as the uproar began. Yakov was after him. Yuri was after him. Christophe was the only one who caught up, probably because Christophe was the only one Viktor would let at this point.

“Did you just turn down an opportunity to stay with Katsuki Yuuri?” Chris demanded, trying to slow Viktor’s gait with a tug of his arm.

Viktor did not slow down.

“I had to,” he choked out, blinking back an unfamiliar sting at the corner of his eyes. Whatever Chris had to say in response, Viktor couldn’t hear. He was too busy trying to swallow around a painful lump in his throat. He jammed the button for the elevator, thankful that there was already a car waiting for him on the ground floor, and passed through the automatic double doors without so much as a glance behind him. “Goodnight, Chris.”


	2. losing faith in sentient beings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somewhere in the haze, euchre was thrown around  
> the fish are jumping, any moment now  
> somewhere in the forest, i was lost in your garden  
> i was lost

“Vitya, you’re done. Go stretch.”

The annoyance in Yakov’s voice was all too apparent that morning. Viktor had only just gotten finished with his warm-ups. He hadn’t even started any program material—and he had a lot he’d wanted to work on, too. His short program piece was already commissioned and choreographed. He’d had it done since before Europeans—a stroke of inspiration he wasn’t entirely willing to own up to just yet.

It was probably fine. People found inspiration in little things all the time; it was human nature. If a little, frustrating tryst at the GPF banquet inspired a great skating routine… well, that just made it good material. It was something he could work with. It was nothing more than that.

In any case, Viktor made his way with no great rush toward the boards, ‘On Love: Eros’ still blasting in his headphones. He wasn’t shocked or concerned about the scowl that was waiting for him there. He and Yakov had just returned from Tokyo two days before, and he knew his coach was no match for jet lag. The littlest inconveniences were enough to strike fury in Yakov’s heart for at least another forty-eight hours until his circadian rhythm righted itself again. Everyone on the team knew well enough to be patient until then.

“I have practice time for another two hours,” Viktor muttered, snatching his thermos up as he slid to a halt. “I’d prefer to get my workout here and not have to share the weight room with the hockey players.”

“And I would prefer not to have your locker be a mess when our new contract arrives,” Yakov bit back, his face practically hidden behind a curtain of steam from his coffee. “Please use your vacation time as such and go easy on your body. It’s no wonder you’ve been ill since Nationals; you never rest.”

Viktor frowned. “New contract?” he asked, unable to conceal the apprehension in his voice. “Did you sign someone? Why didn’t I know about it?”

“Because you’re a jealous bitch, obviously,” drawled Yuri’s voice from the ice, the accusation echoing against the high ceilings far longer than Viktor would have liked. “God forbid things aren’t all about you around here,” the teen added bitterly.

“Yurachka,” Yakov warned, his tone somehow even more stern than before. 

“Who’s the new contract?” Viktor chirped, leaning coyly over the boards. “If it’s the Canadian, I’m calling Josef.”

Yakov flashed a look of warning that suggested his patience was thinning quickly. “If I tell you now, you’ll be a pain in my side until he shows up.”

“It’s a  _ man!?” _ Viktor interjected, outright rejecting his impulse to not take the news personally. “Are you trying to send a message, Yasha? If he’s blond, I’ll throw myself down the stairs. I’ll never skate again.”

“ _ I should be so lucky,” _ Yakov growled. “You’ll need to free up the locker next to yours. This is your training facility, not your second wardrobe. Clean it out. Your neighbor in the locker room deserves better than the filthy state you kids leave my rink in…”

The old man turned away, still grumbling something about his reflux as he went, leaving Viktor to worry. Firstly, he was not ready to incorporate another new face. Prospects were not looking good  _ vis a vis _ it potentially being that Leroy guy, the way Yakov skirted around his questions. Then again, at least if it was him, Viktor would know what to expect. This new teammate could be anybody, and depending on who it was, the whole dynamic of the rink family could change.

Viktor thought it was okay the way it was, all things considered. Georgi was the only one left that shared Viktor’s age and competitive division. They’d been close as kids, but Viktor had only had to watch the fallout of one serious breakup to determine they weren’t quite compatible friends in adulthood. All the kids were great, though. Yuri was a formidable talent, eager to take on the senior division in the upcoming season. Viktor didn’t remotely mind the teen’s hormone-fueled bloviating. It certainly livened up the place. 

Viktor wasn’t sure any of his rinkmates even knew he thought these things. He figured they ought to be said at some point, but he’d never found occasion to bring them up. The rink was his workspace, after all. Not much went on there besides meticulous training. Even in the common areas like the cafe, he found himself alone.

He was used to it.

It was fine.

He was fine.

It took longer than expected to clear his stuff out of the adjacent locker and get it back to his apartment. Viktor spent so much time working that it was often easier to just keep a backup supply of clothes on hand for whatever he may be doing next, from interviews to dates (although he’d had far fewer of the latter as of late). As a result, the locker next to his own had morphed into a sort of combination wardrobe-hamper full of discarded workout clothes and a few previously-clean outfits now deemed too contaminated to wear out. 

It was only the lockers he kept like this. He’d never let his apartment fall into any sort of disarray under any circumstances.

As he pulled clothes out, the smell of mildew grew stronger, and he wound up having to scrub down the inside of the locker to make sure Yakov was appeased. It’s not like he’d have ever admitted to his new neighbor that he’d been the arbiter of such a horrible mess, but still. Hospitality wasn’t so difficult a thing, in theory.

Viktor took the afternoon slowly after that. He laundered what he could of the haul and dropped everything else off at the cleaners. Then, he listened to his favorite advice podcast and re-organized his walk-in closet while Makkachin made slow work of demolishing a heavy rubber chew toy. He took the happy dog for a run around the neighborhood, annoyed to have to maneuver her around mounds of moving boxes that were beginning to accumulate in front of the apartment next to his. The exercise was refreshing, but not quite enough, so after a light dinner (leftover salad—the lettuce wasn’t even crisp) Viktor left for the rink once more. It was after-hours, and he had seniority over whoever might be practicing.  _ And _ Yakov hadn’t let him use his scheduled time that day. 

It was a chilly, gray April evening, the beat of the waves against the beach a constant, underlying thrum as Viktor walked to the rink. He’d made that walk almost every day for the past five years, provided he wasn’t traveling. He knew the other skaters often met up before or after practices, but he preferred his brisk, solitary walks. He wasn’t likely to go out for tea or drinks with a couple of kids, less so with the ice dancers Georgi hung around. Makkachin would miss him too much.

It struck Viktor that because he wasn’t out on the ice much that day, he hadn’t really spoken to anyone except Yakov. For most of the day, it had just been him alone in the locker room, then on his own at home with Makka. That dull ache of loneliness was thrumming beneath the surface, hovering just over his shoulder as it wrapped its cold hands gently around his throat. He swallowed around a lump that had never quite gone down since Sochi, like the day before the onset of a cold. Except unlike a cold’s rapid descent into sniffles, sneezing, and sinus pressure, this time the illness never manifested. Viktor had been ‘under the weather’ for months now without actually getting sick. He’d been doing his best to fight it off. He kept a strict diet, anyway, and his daily vitamins were curated specifically for him by some subscription service Mamulya had signed him up for, so he wasn’t too concerned about nutrients.

Maybe Yakov was right. Maybe he was pushing too hard too soon after the end of the season. The thing was, Viktor didn’t know what else to do. His body hummed with restless discomfort when he wasn’t skating. The only thing that gave him some control over how he felt was translating those emotions into choreography on the ice. He had a catalogue of more finished programs waiting to be used than he would ever be able to present during his career, even if he used a new one for every competition. It was far easier than addressing his demons head-on.

A light was on in the rink when Viktor arrived at the sports complex. Damn, he hadn’t wanted to kick anyone off the ice. Maybe they could negotiate something and he wouldn’t look like such an asshole. In any case, he wasn’t leaving. Hopefully he wasn’t forgetting some sort of hockey training or something. He was entertaining the possibility that he might have to use a studio and just practice choreography on foot when something in the locker room stopped him dead in his tracks.

It wasn’t anything horribly out-of-place. In fact, it was just some skater’s effects. A brown winter coat, a light blue scarf, a black beanie that looked like it might have been meant to mimic the silhouette of a cat’s ears. There were clothes neatly folded and lined up on the bench. It all looked quite tidy—and it was all arranged around the locker he’d just emptied out, right next to his.

_ Accelerando _ meant a quickening in pace, and Viktor suddenly felt he knew the meaning in new and intimate ways as his heartbeat gave a concrete demonstration. It was like he was boiling, the way his systems set in motion so rapidly. He was sure Yakov had said the new recruit would be there the following day. How did he even have access? 

Viktor could hear the muffled sound of music echoing around the rink. He didn’t even bother getting dressed. He couldn’t help himself; he needed to see who their newest skater was and what he had to offer.

He tried to be quiet as he crept down the hall, not wanting to impose or disturb someone on their very first day in a new place. As he pushed through the double doors into the training arena, his breath caught in his throat. He recognized the song that was piping through the PA system.  _ Verismo _ strings swelled and shimmered, draped around the desperate, lonesome voice of an operatic tenor, crying out into the night for his love to stay close to him. The accompaniment was warm and lush with emotion, the singer absorbed in the exact moment of loss. It was the face of a long-forgotten memory disappearing into the distance. It was the futility of wishing to return to blissful innocence, before having had learned the hard way that love only exists as a foil to loneliness.

Viktor had commissioned that piece years ago, the first time he truly felt his love of skating falter. It had been all demand and no reward for him that year, even as he won gold after gold. The edge of competing had gone out, the skaters to whom he’d once been close had started to inch away from him as though they weren’t equals now that fame was catching up with him. His mothers had moved to Sofia to be near Mamochka’s family. Visits home became that much harder. He’d known, when they broke the news, that it wasn’t about him. He’d done nothing wrong, nothing to drive them away. But that wasn’t always how it felt. Suddenly, they weren’t there for Viktor’s local events or even Nationals. It was like being cut off from a lifeline.

_ Stammi vicino _ had been a cry for help to anyone who would listen, but everyone who saw the groundbreaking program had only lauded him for his work and let him go on his way. Even his Mamochka, who grew up speaking both Bulgarian and Italian, who’d studied opera in the National Academy of Music, had only offered her pride and amazement. 

But wait, who was this rookie who had shown up to  _ his _ home rink and begun free skating to  _ his _ program music? What kind of leverage was Yakov trying to pull? Viktor had to know more. The pressure of not knowing was too great, the release of understanding so near. He was drawn in by his own self-interest, sure that if he let well enough alone he’d only drive himself mad. Concealed in the far entrance of the rink, keeping himself in the shadows where he was less likely to be noticed, he peered out onto the ice to learn more about this willful newcomer.

The man on the ice moved with a sort of grace that Viktor had always struggled to put into the choreography for this song. Already, the plea in the lyrics felt like a demand coming from him, even if in reality it was nothing like that. This new skater, dressed in black and navy with a tangle of dark hair, lent an innocence to the theme to which Viktor had never been able to do justice. He seemed invested in it—no, dependent upon it, as if toeing the line between the very start or the bitter end of his life.

It wasn’t lost on him that this guy was performing his routine to a T, his movements easy and fluid unlike anything Viktor had ever seen before. Except, actually, he  _ had _ seen movements like this before. He knew this dancing anywhere—he’d puzzled over it for the entire course of the GPF in Sochi. If his heart had been racing before, by now it had stopped entirely.

Yakov had signed Katsuki Yuuri.

Katsuki Yuuri was in Viktor’s home rink, skating Viktor’s program, after Viktor had turned him down in front of just about everybody they knew professionally.

Viktor’s chest seared with a sharp, rapidly-spreading pain that reached itself upward and out, branching up through his throat and seizing his breath. Whatever muscles he normally used to breathe, they weren’t working now. It climbed upward through his ribs and into his windpipe; he was choking on  _ something, _ something that felt like it was lodged deep in his lungs, that made any passage of air impossible. He staggered backward in the dark hallway, clutching at the wall for support as his efforts to breathe pressed tears from the corners of his eyes. He felt like he was going to burst, and he wasn’t sure whether his head or his chest would be the one to go.

Then, all of a sudden, Viktor’s stomach spasmed. He wretched, the impulse so violent that it shook him to his knees, and as suddenly as they had closed, his airways opened up again, leaving him hacking and sputtering wetly on the ground. Droplets of blood sprayed the tile beneath him with each cough.

As if miles away, Viktor heard the scrape of the skates on the ice come to a halt.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Panicked, Viktor scrambled for the doors. He felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach fighting against his every move with lurches and convulsions that left him gasping for air.

He was going to be sick. He felt the twitch, the half-moments’ worry, before a searing pain exploded in his lungs and a wave of nausea had him emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor. He expected to see more blood. It almost would have been a comfort to him, a validation of the pain that was only sort of dwindling now. But if there was blood, Viktor couldn’t see it for all of the rose petals that littered the ground around him.

_ Rose petals. _

It was the last thing he could have expected. He let out a weak, incredulous laugh, immediately regretting the shockwaves of hurt it elicited. At least now he knew why he’d seen Katsuki Yuuri skating his piece. He must have been sicker than he thought.

Finally, those weeks of caught breath and cough drops were coming to a head, and Viktor was so delirious with illness that he was hallucinating. That had to be the reason the hallway was littered with bright, beautiful, blue rose petals, just like the ones that had adorned his flower crown in his favorite juniors’ costume. They were positively pristine, with no indication they’d just expelled from his throat, and they must have been dry, because the few that hadn’t yet settled were still swirling on some invisible eddy of wind, floating mysteriously before fluttering down.

At least it was beautiful, in spite of all the pain. He pulled out his phone to call…  _ someone. _ He’d be in for it when Yakov inevitably found out he was trying to skate after hours. Maybe Georgi could help him out. But he froze when he realized the skater out on the ice was  _ still there, _ now shuffling around hurriedly in the telltale  _ clack _ of his skate guards.

“Are you o— _ oh my god… _ ”

How cruel of Viktor’s feverish brain to make his new colleague look and sound so much like Yuuri. How dare he imagine that soft, round face twisted with horror, eyes wide and skin pale, before the figure turned and ran, the humiliating sound of his heavy-laden footfalls echoing through the arena for what felt like an eternity.

And then it hit him again, more urgently than before—a spray of blue rose petals. This time, he could feel their sickening, velvety pull against the walls of his throat, could taste their overwhelming, soapy scent all too inescapably. The last few he spat out wetly, unsurprised when the fingers he used to wipe his chin came back sticky and dark red. The metallic smell of blood mixing with the heady, floral perfume was too dizzying for Viktor to bear, but his stomach trembled and spasmed violently when he tried to pull himself upright. Drenched in sweat, frightened, and unable to move, Viktor forgot what he’d been doing initially. He collapsed into a bed of blue flowers, unable to erase the hallucinated, horrified Katsuki Yuuri from his mind’s eye.

* * *

  
  


“Oh, Vitya…”

Footsteps and the crackle of fluorescent lighting woke Viktor with a start. His entire body ached, despite the soft, velveteen pillow he’d found for himself. He didn’t feel nearly as feverish as he remembered feeling when… Well, that couldn’t be right, he’d been sick to the point of hallucinating. He’d thought he’d seen a Japanese skater and a maelstrom of rose petals, the soft, fragrant scent of which still lingered in his nostrils with startling vividness. He could hear Yakov’s concerned grumbling from where his coach towered above him, but he was to scared to look up, to face the reality that he’d been trying to sneak in to work when he’d been forbidden, that he’d scared away their new recruit.

“Yasha,” he moaned into his arms blinking down into… no.

No, the flower petals had been a hallucination. He’d been so sure. If the flower petals were real, then that meant…

“Katsuki called me in hysterics,” Yakov grunted, his heel grinding into the floor. It was one of his many nervous habits, a tell that betrayed his stony disposition. “He seemed to think you’d been murdered.”

“Why didn’t you—” Viktor began, about to demand more information about the new skater’s contract, when another coughing fit seized his chest and locked his shoulders, a handful of bright blue petals tumbling from his lips into his hands. The feeling was so jarring, so helpless that Viktor couldn’t help the tears that came spilling out after, his fingers raking through his hair as he rocked on the spot. “Yasha, help me,” he cried, his voice small, pitiful like he couldn’t remember hearing himself in years. “What’s happening?”

He knew better than to be needy in front of his coach. He knew better than to whine. He knew what that sort of weak-mindedness got him, but for all of the bitter expectations and habitual dread, no blowback came. Viktor waited, crying and shaking, for Yakov to say anything at all. He was not ready for the hand on his shoulders, nor the way Yakov rubbed his back in gentle strokes as he hummed sympathetically. 

“My god, Vitya, what have you done?” the old man murmured, the usual, enraged edge gone from his voice. 

At twenty-seven, Viktor was perhaps the most insolent of all of Yakov’s many, many children at the rink. He knew he was a brat and a thorn in his coach’s side, but they had an understanding that allowed him to operate that way. Yakov was Mamochka’s brother, not related by blood but still family. Viktor had lived with him for almost a decade, ever since his mothers had defected to Bulgaria in 2002. Between them, and between Viktor and Lilia, there had never been any secrets, even after their fighting pushed Viktor out into his own flat.

He was insolent, sure. But he was Yakov’s charge even as an adult. So when Viktor begged him not to call an ambulance, Yakov listened. It was without question. A hospital visit would alarm The Nikiforovas, and hiding a hospital visit would be hell for both men.

Draped over his coach’s shoulders, Viktor let himself be dragged out to the old, charcoal-colored sedan, the same as Yakov had always had for as long as he could remember. Each step was deliberate and belabored, the tightness in his chest refusing to dissipate, and just the short walk had him gasping for air by the time he sank down into the tan leather seat on the passenger’s side. Yakov said nothing as he shut the door and circled around to the driver’s side, and nothing still as they pulled away. The first few minutes on the road were filled with silence, save for Viktor’s sharp, gasping breaths.

“I want your phone when we get home. When we get to the house,” Yakov said, correcting himself with a shake of his head. “You’ll tell no one about this, understood?”

“Yessir,” Viktor coughed. A single rose petal fell into his lap.

“I’ve texted Artyom to clean the hall. His shift starts soon, anyway.” Viktor watched the old man’s face as he scanned the road ahead, clenched and careful and grave. There was no panic there, no worry, but something about his demeanor told Viktor there was plenty to fear. “Your sessions are cancelled for the next week. I am calling Doctor Vassilyevich in the morning.”

“Can’t I use our clinic?” Viktor asked.

“Absolutely not,” Yakov spat, dialing haphazardly into his phone as he turned onto a motorway. “You are banned from the rink until I figure out next steps, understood? And you’ll stay with me. Write me a list of what items you’ll need and I’ll send Yurachka to fetch them for you tomorrow.”

A familiar voice sounded on the other end of the line as the call connected. After all Yakov had said,  _ that _ shouldn’t have been the thing to worry him, but  _ that _ was unlikely enough that Viktor felt a tightness in his stomach now, too.

“Lilenka,” Yakov grumbled. “I know, I know. I’ll— Yes. Yes, I know. Lilenka, it’s Viktor…”

* * *

  
  


Viktor fought Yakov all the way back to the house, his sides aching as he tried to insist upon another way. Okay. He was probably sick. He knew that. He definitely needed bed rest and a doctor. But a kidnapping on the part of his coach was more dramatic than even Viktor would consider pulling off. He was by no means incapable; even in illness, he had to be one of the most able-bodied men on the planet. He had a display case full of gold saying so. 

“I want to go home.”

Yakov snorted as the vehicle rolled to a halt at the end of a gravel driveway.

“Yes, well I want you alive,” he muttered, pulling himself stiffly to stand. “Can you walk?”

Viktor could, he found, but only in short bursts before he had to take a break. Yakov helped him in, up to the bedroom that still remained frozen in time—the shrine to his youth in pastel mauves and lacey florals—and gave him a cup containing hot water and single-malt whiskey.

“If you do not sleep, I think it may be a sorry night for you,” the old coach muttered, setting the mug down on a pink decoupage nightstand. He seemed hesitant about something, always the picker of his words, but whatever idea was bouncing around in his head never broke through to the surface. Viktor took note of how truly worried his coach looked, like whatever he might have said was actually quite crucial but saying it would be too difficult.

“How on earth are you at a loss for words now?” he asked cautiously, clutching a laundry-worn tie-dyed bear to his chest and trying desperately to read what was in the old man’s face. 

Yakov only shook his head again, the downturn of his lips remarkably similar to that which he’d worn during the split.

“Idiot boy,” he spat bitterly, his guard never dropping, even as he leaned down to kiss Viktor on the cheek. “Sleep. And…” He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, glancing around like the answer might have been hiding somewhere among all of the jewel Beanie Baby display cases or the rows of ceramic figurines. “—and please try not to worry about the new recruit, for your own health,” he added reluctantly.

Viktor’s chest seized once more. Was it strange that he was getting used to this already? How quickly did these things progress? This time was less sudden and violent than the first, but he could feel the same frightening drowning feeling before the strange, blue substance dislodged itself from his throat. 

“Sleep, Vitya.” Yakov tutted, turning for the door. 


	3. it's like i'm on the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i can't really breathe, but i feel lighter

Watching Lilia shout in Yakov’s ear was not Viktor’s idea of a good morning. Not a good anything, really. He loved both coach and dance instructor more than he could bear for how sour they’d grown over the years. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was his fault, if he’d brought his lonely heart into their warm home and let the ice begin to spread.

He knew for certain that if it hadn’t been for his episode the previous night, Yakov’s tiny kitchen wouldn’t be filled with shouts and tears. Lilia paced along the edge of the countertop, the tips of her nails brushing absent-mindedly along the granite surface as she came down on her ex-husband with a terrible fury the cause of which Viktor still couldn’t parse. The tension was too high for a fever and some nausea. Even the brief fainting spell seemed too benign to merit such a tense response.

“—and tell your sister what, exactly? That the boy is ill and you let him get there? That you sat idly by while this advanced and did absolutely nothing!?”

“I’m not a boy, Lilia, I’m twenty-eight,” Viktor reminded the woman in French, poking at a bowl of soup. It’d been a snap response, and he paid for it dearly as both Yakov and Lilia rounded on him with harsh words in two languages. He pressed his lips together, smart enough to know when to draw the line with those two, and stared down into his soup.

He must have been feeling better, honestly. There were no hallucinations that morning, no strangely symbolic visions or sharp, stabbing pains. His chest still ached and his throat was raw and swollen. He feared it might become pneumonia, but once again, he was confident in his overall health and ability to heal. If he really was that ill, a visit with Doctor Vassilyevich would be more than sufficient to get him back to health.

Lilia was insisting that this does not happen overnight, and that this is clear enough that even if Viktor was trying to hide it that Yakov should have known. This was an ominous thing; Viktor had no clue what he might have been hiding or presenting as of late.

“I’ve been sick for weeks,” he mumbled. “I haven’t been hiding anything. He’s been on my ass about it since Nationals.”

“Language,” Lilia spit, although her usual sting was softened as her eyes flicked in Viktor’s direction. She seemed to shift on the spot for a moment, a movement Viktor could not quite interpret, a secondary glance thrown in his direction that seemed more apprehensive than the woman was trying to let on. “I want to hear it from you, Vitya,” she said finally, after what appeared to be a moment of difficult contemplation. “When did you first start hurting?”

Viktor explained the lump of discomfort in his throat that had never really developed into any real pain, that had been more of an annoyance than a concern, and that hadn’t bothered him until last night, when all at once it appeared to be worse than he could have thought. 

“I still don’t really know what happened,” he rasped, gulping down broth in between thoughts to soothe the burn that shot through his core like a fiery pillar. “I don’t know; maybe I didn’t hydrate as well as I usually do. I felt feverish and then delirious, and then I woke up on the floor with Yakov towering over me and I got dragged here.”

“Did something happen between you and that Swiss friend of yours?” Lilia asked nonchalantly, turning to fill a kettle with water from the sink.

“Christophe? No,” Viktor said, unsure why she was changing the subject all of a sudden.

“Martin, then? Have you been inviting old flames back into your life?”

“Lilenka,” Yakov protested with a reproachful groan. “I don’t see why—”

Lilia cut him off with a single finger thrust into the air, the way she always used to when they fought, the way that Viktor had begun to fear by the time she moved out. “Because I’d like to rule out everything before concluding this is all over your new recruit.”

“God, the new recruit…” Viktor had almost forgotten. He thought back to the clattering footfalls of a skate-laden run, the echoes of  _ Stammi vicino _ filling the empty rink, his chest tightening before he even connected the dots, bracing for the revelation he’d been dancing around all morning. “Wait… Is it really Yuuri Kats—”

The sound of his voice choking out mixed with the clatter of his spoon back into the bowl made both his former guardians jump. Viktor clapped his hands over his mouth, suddenly remembering why the fainting spell and the coughing had felt so shameful the night before.

Everything was beginning to piece together. Yakov’s staid and solemn gaze, the hint of pity in his voice, the seriousness with which he took what Viktor had assumed was a little bout of illness. He knew what would happen if he released his breath here—or at least, he thought he knew the kind of gruesome display he’d be putting on for Lilia. He jumped to his feet, upsetting his chair as he scrambled for the bathroom down the hall.

“It’ll do you no good to hold them in,” Lilia called after him, following at a leisurely pace as Viktor fell to his knees outside the bathroom door, already emptying himself of another onset of bright, nearly-perfect blue petals.

There was no blood this time. Viktor knelt outside the bathroom, his knees practically digging into the plush, turquoise-green rug of the hall as he rested his forehead against the cool, smooth wooden door.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he rasped, gathering the petals in his fist and thrusting it behind him, crushing them beneath his fingers and letting them fall to the floor. “How do you know what this is?”

“Vitya, you must stay calm,” Yakov said, not moving from his spot in the kitchen. “We have both seen this before. It’s alarming, but there… there are some things you can do.”

_ “Some things,” _ bit Lilia bitterly. Viktor could hear her close at his back, near enough to make him jump, before she lifted him handly with her hands hooked under his shoulders. “This will not be easy, Vitya. It will not be easy to hear, and it will not be easy to overcome.”

“Now, must you scare the boy…?”

“I must at the very least do him the courtesy of telling him the truth,” the woman spat over Viktor’s shoulder.

There was a crash of dishes, and as Viktor turned back into the kitchen, his coach was picking pieces of his broken mug out of the sink with shaking hands.

“Are you suggesting I would not tell him everything I now know? That I would lie under the delusion that I might somehow protect him?”

“You lied to Kostya!” Lilia roared, pulling Viktor not into the kitchen but the adjacent sitting room, letting him settle next to him on the sofa before pulling a throw blanket around his shoulders.

Viktor started. Maybe it was the daze of having just vomited, but it took him a few moments to realize he recognized the name.

“Kostya…?” he parroted dumbly. He vaguely remembered a Kostya from his early years, a lithe, lanky ice dancer at least ten years his senior. Nothing in particular stuck out about the man, except that he was one of those older skaters who quietly retired into obscurity. He hadn’t been spectacular, but a few of Viktor’s medals hung by his in the trophy case at the rink, in any case. Viktor had never really given the man much thought. 

“The poor thing,” Lilia breathed, seeming to settle back into the couch, her meticulously-maintained posture forgotten for the moment. It was something Viktor had only seen from her once or twice, even having lived under the same roof as her for so long. “He was a fool, but it was our own ignorance that failed him.”

“We couldn’t have known,” Yakov grunted. “Lilenka, we cannot start this again. We did what we thought was best.”

“We should have been firmer. We should have watched,” the woman said darkly, masking her face behind a slender, manicured hand. “We did him an injustice, and you know it.”

“I appreciate your attempts to frighten me further,” Viktor said, articulating carefully and slowly, “but I think you’re underestimating how scared I already am. If you know what this nightmare is, can you please just tell me?”

He cringed as the words left his mouth. He was their insolent boy and the thorn in Yakov’s side; a reproachful word could earn him plenty of trouble. But he could barely gather his thoughts enough to rationalize through this on his own. The weight of it all was too much. Viktor didn’t want pity, no cautious concern. He certainly had no interest in veiled allusions to apparent tragedies. Hell, actually, that would have been okay if they had at least brought with them some answers. He waited, palms pressing into his eyelids, ready for the usual castigation, but none came. There were no curses, no reprimands; when Viktor peered out from over his fingertips, he was only met with the same piteous stares he’d received since the previous night. Lilia’s hand stayed just in front of her mouth, not quite enough to hide a grimace that carried with it something like remorse. Yakov’s scowl was softened, twitching as he started another pot of water, his eyes darting away the moment they met Viktor’s.

Lilia sipped her tea with two hands cupped around the mug, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I will only tell you this in the context of what happened with Kostya,” she said sharply. “You will have to think about why, Vitya, with the understanding that we can make ourselves ill with emotions, and you, in particular, are a walking cataclysm of untamed feelings.” She set down her mug and reclined slightly, although she supported her head with one hand at the temple in such a way that would suggest there was nothing comfortable about the couch they shared.

“Kostya,” she began her voice dry and pointedly stable, “was an ice dancer who skated alongside the magnificent Galina Lemberskaya. He lived to support her. He skated his love out on the ice in such a way that all eyes were on her. Everything he did framed her so beautifully that no one ever really noticed him. It was never Yasha’s or my place to meddle in the private affairs of our skaters. You know this, Vitya, even if your circumstances are exceptional. Some speculated that the two were involved in an affair off-ice, the way they moved so intimately on it. Kostya seemed to worship her, seemed to live for her, even when they weren’t skating. His emotion translated well on the ice. Everyone felt it.”

Viktor nodded. Thinking back, the pair had always had a certain air to them: desperate and heady, the kind of obsessive, irrational passion that strikes first to make way for love. He could feel that there was a gravity between the two of them, one that was strong and persistent but broken in some way.

“She dragged that poor fool behind her for so long that he forgot how to walk for all the crawling. She was far more well-received than he was by the public. Everyone talked about the way Galina moved. In a way, I think he preferred it that way. It justified his wanting all that much more.”

“He loved her?” Viktor asked. 

“More than anything else, it turned out,” Lilia said, a hint of bitterness beginning to stain her voice. “He was so young. They both were. I thought for so long that neither of them knew how badly she hurt him, how dreadful it was when she got engaged to that Italian fellow who choreographed their dances, but it was then that we began to see him falter.”

“Falter?” Viktor echoed. He wasn’t sure he understood what this pathetic travesty had to do with his sudden illness. “He lost heart, you mean?”

“Unfortunately, he was not quite strong enough for that,” Yakov said, wandering over with two mugs of tea, one of which he set down in front of Viktor. The strong, medicinal smell of thyme, sage, and slippery elm wafted between them. “No, for as clear as a message as the engagement was, he still pined over her hopelessly, and as he did, we saw him grow weaker and more sickly.”

The sting in Viktor’s throat was enough that he set aside his distaste for the herbal drink. He grabbed for it, breathing in its vapors for a moment before bracing himself against a too-hot, too-spicy gulp, the likes of which struck him square in the chest. He swallowed too hard too fast, enough so that he could feel the edges of his gulp all the way down, and in a way, that seemed to help. The concoction burned in his belly, a restless warmth that made its way outward slowly. 

Lilia held her hand out, brandishing a warning towards her ex-husband as she sat up and reached for her own cup. “We believed it to be nerves. Everyone did. Everyone suspected the shame of rejection was more than he could bear, but no one knew what he was hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Flowers,” Lilia spat, her face twisted with disgust. The restraint in her voice mixed with the realization at her words made Viktor start. “Violets; their petals collecting in his lungs and his esophagus, falling from his lips like some sickening magic trick. He kept it from us for months, taking ill often and suppressing his feelings, but after a while it became too much. They grew stronger, took root, and soon enough he could not even skate whether Galina was with him or not.”

“That’s…” Viktor began, trying to piece together the snippets of understanding he was grasping at. He could still feel the sharp jab of something foreign in his chest, the flutter in his lungs that teased and tickled. But he could not relate to the ice dancer. He hadn’t been rejected, he hadn’t given himself completely to someone only to be dropped. “It was some form of love-sickness, then?” he asked.

Lilia nodded solemnly, and Viktor burned. Only one person seemed to haunt his thoughts as of late, but he wouldn’t call himself lovesick. Lonely, yes. Desperate, yes. He’d allowed himself some trysts since Sochi, all nightclub pickups that Christophe had pushed him into, but nothing had seemed to penetrate the walls he’d fashioned for himself. They’d all been bittersweet; Viktor hadn’t let one of them stay the night. He’d curled up on empty king-sized beds, awake and listening to the illusion of stillness that always seemed to come with even the nicest hotel suites. Somewhere, just under the surface, restlessness and discontent always murmured, fueled by the faint whispers of the activities in neighboring rooms.

No one had stolen his heart. No one had given him any reason to want or wish since…

Something sickening bloomed within him, the sort of unfamiliar pressure that had brought him to his knees the night before. He tried to cough, wheezing when the impulse brought with it more sharp jabs, and two or three new petals wisped out in front of him, swirling sinisterly until they came to rest on the carpet.

The involuntary impulse reamed through him, the sight of his sorry self blurred by tears once more, although this time he didn’t have the strength to blink them away. He knew the truth. He’d been hiding from it all this time, suppressing it, denying what he felt in fear that it was just another irrational trick of his lonesome mind.

But he knew. He loved a man he’d barely spoken to, a man who’d basically disappeared after the GPF only to crop up in the most unlikely of places. And he’d turned that man down out of spite and self-loathing.

“You have options,” Yakov said, although for all of the hope that phrase should have offered, there was a worrying tone to his voice, a sharpness in his eyes that suggested that ‘options’ might not necessarily mean  _ ‘good _ options.’

Lilia let out a noise of exasperation, a sharp exhale that she failed to conceal even as her hand jumped to her mouth. Viktor shivered; suddenly he felt empty and cold, and he clutched at the arm of the sofa.

“To overcome it, you mean?” he proffered, trying to stay optimistic. “Surely Kostya overcame it?”

They received news of every former skaters’ passing whether they competed two years ago or fifty. Viktor had never heard news of any odd illness or sudden tragedy. But the hesitant glances exchanged between Yakov and Lilia weren’t quick enough to slip past his perception, the fry of Lilia’s voice wasn’t subtle enough to go unnoticed.

“Vitya…”

Yakov groaned. “Well don’t make it sound like the man is dead!”

“He’s no better off!” Lilia snapped. She stood then, apparently unable to take any more, and snatched her coat from the rack by the door. “Let me know when a plan has been made. I… Vitya, I will always be there for you. The past is a tricky thing. I believe I can only be complicit in whatever the future brings.” She paused, her fingertips just grazing the door handle and her gaze trained on Viktor, her eyes sparkling as they had only but once in his memory. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, some summation of her thoughts, but after a few fruitless efforts, she quickly swung the door open with a feigned cough and was gone.

Viktor vaguely remembered, as he listened to the click of heels disappearing down the stone walkway, that Kostya’s final season had occurred around or just before the split.

Perhaps it had been the final straw.

The two men sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, gazing into their laps and chewing their tongues, their cups of tea growing colder by the minute. Viktor could hardly wrap his head around what was happening. He understood, in pieces, each detail that had been relayed to him, and he thought he understood his connection, but every time he approached that concluding thought, every time he tried to divine from Lilia’s words what this meant for him, he found himself backpedaling, putting up walls, shutting the door before he could fully see what was on the other side.

The slightest thought of Yuuri caused his chest to ache, a stabbing, demanding pain that throbbed in time with his racing heart until he found his focus enough to redirect himself. Gazing down into the glassy surface of his cup, he experimented, picturing in his mind’s eye a tangle of messy, black hair and the burnt caramel eyes that twinkled with stars whenever they looked his way. Then, erasing that image, he thought of anything else; of Makkachin when she was just a puppy, of Martin and his other old flames, of the best sex he’d ever had. But when he thought of Yuuri’s form cutting delicate and statuesque shapes into the ice—only then did he feel it. 

Another coughing fit.

“What treatment was he given?” he spat, not bothering to pick up the pieces that poured from him, not daring to look up. “What could be so bad that Lilia called him ‘better off dead’?”

Yakov’s old leather armchair groaned as he shifted his weight. “The treatment could have been started sooner. We had no idea… like you, he’d hidden it for so long…”

“I hid nothing!” Viktor shouted.

The room was spinning, the dregs of his tea the only thing grounding him as he jumped to his feet. His knuckles were white where he gripped his mug, a blinding heat searing behind his eyes. 

“Of course,” Yakov murmured, his voice suddenly subdued. “Please, Vitya, sit down. I’m sorry.”

Those words were new. How lovely it would have been to hear them under different circumstances, to be given a chance to appreciate them and enjoy them. Instead, it was further damnation as far as Viktor concerned, and he dropped down again, his near-empty mug tumbling quietly onto the rug at his feet.

“They can be removed. The procedure is simple. Non-invasive. When Doctor Vassilyevich comes, he will explain.”

“I want to do it,” Viktor said, his words echoing through his head as he spoke, as if he was speaking from the other end of a long corridor. His palms stung, a sudden, new pain that pulled his attention from the inescapable throb of his throat. He unclenched his fists, revealing four little quarter-moons imprinted where his fingernails had been digging into his skin, shiny and bright red. “I’ll do it, whatever the cost.”

Yakov was silent for another moment, one that stretched on a little too long for Viktor’s comfort.

“What?”

“The cost will be great, I’m afraid.”

“Greater than death, you mean?” Viktor cried, finally swinging around to face his coach and finding nothing but pain and sympathy in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been getting at this whole time, isn’t it?”

Yakov nodded. “It will be no greater than… than  _ that.” _ He stood and gathered up the cups—Lilia’s from the coffee table, Viktor’s from the floor. “I will admit we informed Kostya only of the treatment and its side effects, not of its urgency. When it became clear… when he chose the illness over the side effects; it wasn’t until then that we warned him of the real danger.”

“What side effects?” Viktor pressed. “I will sacrifice anything!”

“The doctor will be able to explain it better than I can,” Yakov said. “No one expects you to make the choice today, Vitya.”

“Just tell me,” Viktor gritted. His head was beginning to ache from the tension of managing his tears. Mixed with everything else, being awake was becoming unbearable. But he had to know. The vibrating energy that was keeping him upright would keep him from resting until he had a sense of his standing.

“The… the  _ thing, _ the flowers…” Yakov said through a grimace of discomfort. “The  _ disease _ feeds off feeling.” He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture that seemed to scan Viktor’s body from head to foot and back. “It cannot survive if you cannot feel.”

Viktor didn’t stand to go to his room. He didn’t acknowledge the answer at all. He let himself fall sideways onto the sofa, clutching the throw blanket around his shoulders.

“I am so sorry, Vitya.”

“I need to sleep,” Viktor muttered, his voice an unrecognizable, hollow rasp.


	4. and i will get lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and i will get lonely  
> and gasp for air  
> and i will send up your name  
> like a signal flare

The doctor had no more comfort to offer. Everything was just a complication of what Yakov had already said, delivered in cold, clinical terms. Viktor had begged, pleaded with Doctor Vassilyevich to just  _ do it, _ to let him undergo the procedure at the soonest convenience. At least this would be over, as would his inability to cope with the walls that threatened to press in on him from all sides every time he thought about his fast-dwindling control on his own life. The cavernous echo of loneliness that made him feel vast and endless, unfulfilled and unfixable, that would all be gone. He wouldn’t have to worry about empty beds or empty conversations or empty praise. He wouldn’t have to worry about Katsuki Yuuri and the endless work it took to swallow back all thoughts of him now that he was  _ there _ in St. Petersburg, now that every day held the potential for Viktor to see that dancing once more, to get a feel for just what made Yuuri move.

He didn’t care that it was callous. He knew it was impulsive, but hadn’t he built his entire image on impulsive moves? The Lilac Fairy costume his first time returning to Sofia, an effort to shock his mothers into reaching out? The leaked photos from old ragers that had given Yakov stomach ulcers from all the stress? It was to be expected from him. And besides, who would know the difference, now that he was balanced on a wire above the rest of the world? Not a single person cared about Viktor without the ‘Nikiforov’ that followed. He’d be surprised if anyone noticed a difference.

But, just as Yakov had, Doctor Vassilyevich insisted that Viktor wait, that he give a degree of thought to the decision.

“There is always the possibility that the party in question is hiding reciprocated feelings of their own, after all,” he assured Viktor, peering over thin, wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Finding out for sure can do you no further harm. And as I’ve said, some people have learned to live with their disease, keep their feelings and slow the advance of the symptoms. Through therapy and a change of lifestyle, you could, realistically…” He peered down at his chart, where he’d taken copious notes on details Viktor honestly felt were trivial, like the approximate number of petals and whether they were connected and the length of time that elapsed from the start of one fit to the finish, the latency between episodes as if they weren’t directly connected to something so simple and specific.

The doctor frowned.

“Well… I guess we’ll have to be vigilant with this case. The moment something starts to change, I would like to be notified. We don’t want another emergency procedure like the last one, Mr. Feltsman.”

Yakov made a noise of acknowledgement.

“Obviously, besides this, there isn’t much we can do.”

He scribbled indecipherable words on a prescription pad and fished through a book of business cards for a light teal and gold card featuring a number in swirling, embossed letters.

“Some have found success with mindfulness practice: meditation, yoga, this kind of thing that can strengthen the mind and help you control your thoughts.”

Viktor took the card and turned it over in his hands. There was a pale pink lotus flower inscribed in faint, impossibly-thin lines.

“You do not have to compete this season, Vitya,” Yakov pressed. “You are more important than your sponsorships. We prepared for this when we set up your insurance. You can take time off and still support yourself.”

“And tell the public what?”

“As little or as much as you like,” Yakov said solemnly. “I wouldn’t advise striking panic in the hearts of the poor young ladies who follow your every move, but it isn’t exactly uncommon to take a hiatus for injury or illness.”

Viktor did his best, or felt himself try, to not crush the business card between his fingers as fear like a widening shadow washed over him once more, a paralyzing realization of just how seriously fucked he was.

“I’ll never skate again,” he muttered, his mouth dry and sour with bile, his stomach very noticeably empty.

“Chances are you’ll remain well enough to skate for a year or two more if you are able to seriously handle your symptoms right away.”

“No,” Viktor pressed, rising to his feet. “No, I mean…. Either way. I don’t do bullshit programs. I’m damned to either kill myself slowly doing what I love or lose the last thing that actually made it worth it.”

He didn’t have any things to gather. Yakov had left his skate bag at the rink.

“I’ll be walking to the train if you won’t drive me home.”

Yakov’s brow hardened, but Viktor didn’t miss the quiver at the corner of his lips, momentary as it was. 

“I advise you to stay here until we’ve come up with a plan.”

Viktor said nothing. He’d have to completely re-write his short program, music and all, and he wasn’t touching the ice until that was done. He’d based it all on that night. There was nothing left that he could use. Nothing he could explore without falling apart.

He swallowed hard against the thought, let the painful impulse that came with the feeling wash over him, and let the triumph settle like steel in his chest. 

This was his punishment. This was what he got for throwing aside everything and everyone he loved except for the one. Skating was his everything, and he could no longer allow himself to skate in the way he could truly say made him happiest. He couldn’t let go, give himself up to his strongest feelings and rely on them to drive him through record-breaking routines. He wasn’t sure he knew to begin. He’d always skated his obsession, whatever that was. For the longest time, it was skating itself, and then the emptiness that filled him when the lights went out, and then the next big thing to bring him excitement and desire in his life.

He didn’t do bullshit programs. He was going to find something new and do it right. But as he turned out the door and walked down Yakov’s long drive, he couldn’t think of a single program, old or new or conceptual, that would interest him enough to draw from him the kind of art he’d come to be associated with. He was finished. He knew. But for some reason, one he knew but wouldn’t admit—wouldn’t even think about now that he understood the repercussions—he couldn’t give up on the current season. He had nothing else to lose.

The choreography would be easy, once he found music that resonated with him. The choreography came to him out of necessity more than anything else, a series of expressions that flowed from him naturally when he felt passionately enough about the program piece. It had been easy—not only that, but nearly unavoidable—to come up with Regarding Love: Eros after his world had been shaken by a night of flirting and dancing. The most interesting, most enticing, most alluring man had danced his way into Viktor’s life, and just when Viktor was close enough to get a taste, he’d been thrown aside by his own expectations.

His apartment building was quiet when he returned. His new neighbor’s boxes were gone from the hall, a single pair of tennis shoes resting in their place, lined up neatly with the door frame. The faint sounds of piano music sounded from behind the numbered door. Viktor wasn’t exactly a friendly neighbor. He wasn’t hostile, either, only that he’d never gotten to know  _ any _ of his neighbors since moving in. This new one would be no exception, he was sure.

Whether he or Makkachin made more of a fuss at their reunion was up for debate. Something about her unquestioning excitement at his arrival, her attitude unchanged and unaffected by everything he’d undergone in the past few days, was so calming and comforting that the rest of Viktor’s day was immediately handed over to her. He curled up on the couch and let Makka up with him to rest her head on his shoulder as they both drifted off to sleep.

Makkachin was warm, the subtle drone of her snores constant and soothing, and the weight of her body on top of Viktor’s felt like the last tether that kept him from flying away into the vast, expanding space of disassociation. He combed his fingers through her soft curls and focused everything on the feel of her, the warm, musky smell of her breath, every component that made up this present, until he was so saturated in unconditional love and touch-starved snuggles that he felt a heavy weight over his entire body, not just where she lay. Sleep dragged him down swiftly and silently. He hardly would have noticed if not for the violent awakening born from another coughing fit.

Blue rose petals stuck in Makkachin’s fur as she jumped to the floor in alarm.

Viktor’s stomach growled, doubly empty now that he’d just emptied it further, although it took the sickness for him to remember he hadn’t eaten yet since waking up. He ventured a look in the fridge, certain he’d find it empty but remaining hopeful anyway. Sometimes he surprised himself with what he was able to salvage from leftovers and remnants of ingredients.

His hunch was correct, however. The fridge was, for the most part, empty. There was a single, plastic-covered bowl that he didn’t recognize, a full dish to which a little, yellow note had been stuck.

_ I heard you are ill. I hope you make a speedy recovery. This might not make it to you in time to eat, but I asked Yuri to let you know when he was here to feed your (cute!!!) dog. It always makes me feel better when I’m sick. _ _   
_ _ Get well -Your New Neighbor _

Whatever it was, the dish smelled deliciously savory and heavy, with the sort of sweet burn of fried onions that Viktor hadn’t the will nor the wariness to turn down. He trusted Yuri enough to screen out anyone or anything suspicious, with how cynical that boy was. Above all, he just wanted comfort, and the slightly-fried, slightly-meaty smell of this bowl was too enticing. In the end, Viktor didn’t even heat it up and it was still one of the best meals he’d ever eaten. He finished it off standing right there at the counter, not even bothering to sit and savor. He’d been ravenous. 

Maybe he’d have to meet this new neighbor.

Except, no, Viktor remembered that he’d somehow been trapped in a new and dire emotional unavailability. Maybe he’d have it in him for a fling. But he was facing a choice—and a forced one, at that—between earning Yuuri’s love or losing his own altogether. There was no room for him to seek that connection elsewhere.

The reminder of just how finished Viktor was washed over him with the last bite of rice. He dropped the bowl to the floor for Makkachin to finish and dragged himself off to bed once more.

The next few days were a blur of sleep and occasional program work, of taking Makkachin outside and downing cup after cup of chest-soothing tisane. Of medicated lulls when Viktor could rest easy that no thought of Yuuri could arouse even the slightest emotional reaction in him. He could take Xanax and sleep throughout the night. He often did.

Eventually, he had what was beginning to look like the bones of a program, two contrasting pieces that fit the same theme and that had nothing to do with the life or love that Viktor had found in Sochi, that had nothing to do with his loneliness and longing, nothing that could trigger an episode mid-skate. He practiced early in the morning now, at a time when few other skaters had the will to drag themselves to the rink, and he was pleased and puzzled to find that Yakov didn’t have too many questions for him. He almost found himself back in the hands of a steady routine.

Except, by all accounts, it felt like the furthest thing from routine. By all accounts, Viktor was stumbling along a narrow path in the midst of hell itself, ignoring the horrors that loomed on all sides, as he tried to keep hold of the last, fraying strands of normalcy. By seven in the morning, his day was done; his rink time was up, his engagements made. He’d go home and sleep away the day, or he’d make half-hearted attempts to exercise effectively from home. He was afraid, now, to walk to the rink or anywhere that dragged him too far from the security of his own apartment building for the fear that he might run into the one face that could undo him without word or occasion. He took Makkachin out to the courtyard when she needed it. Sometimes, if he was feeling up to it, he made a couple loops around the block. Anything further, and he’d call a car with tinted windows and bury himself in a book for the duration of the commute. 

He’d been lonely before, but nothing could have prepared him for this new self-seclusion. His social interactions now came in the form of dialectical behavior skills training groups and meditation classes with a new therapist, a woman with thick, black curls and plastic-rimmed glasses named Inessa. Her voice was low and soothing, her demeanor strangely comforting even as she asked him about death, even as she asked him to consider possibilities he was not ready to tackle yet. 

Some days he met her bluntness with gratitude, some days he resented her with a bitterness he was only just discovering within himself.

“Surely you’re financially stable,” Inessa chirped, her accent subtle and soft like the little, babbling fountain she kept on the table between them. “What is so important about continuing to skate?”

The questions were always a little intrusive in a way that Viktor wasn’t quite ready to accept. Inessa demanded a level of vulnerability that felt unwieldy and dangerous, a willingness to shed light on the conditions he’d created for himself up until now. So often, he found himself slipping into interview mode. So often, he’d offer a coy smile and an anecdote about his first win. Something safe and disingenuous. So often, it would be met with sad acceptance, with a kind of weaponized patience. She’d be ready for him when he decided to cut the bullshit.

“It’s all I have. It’s my tether to existence.”

“I wonder how true that would be if you stayed in contact with your parents,” she challenged. It was a painful sort of hypothetical, the sort of thought experiment that seized Viktor by the heart and dared him to imagine the worst. He wasn’t ready to wander down that path, to imagine how things could be different. He just wanted to survive the present.

For all the deflection that entailed, Inessa seemed willing to accommodate. Anything too far removed from Viktor’s comfort zone was stashed away for a later session. But that didn’t mean he was allowed to stay within his boundaries.

“I’d like to try thinking about him, if that’s all right,” she’d suggest. “I’d like to try stepping back and letting yourself become an observer, to witness what you’re feeling without letting those feelings overtake you. Can we try that?”

Every episode could be the one that sends a thorny branch through his heart, or his lungs, or could block his air passages for good, but they tried it anyway. They tried exercises like this all the time; impulse rejection and self-as-observer stuff. Putting thoughts away for later. The result was often terrifying, controlled experiments that evoked painful fits of piercing emotion, even after his first successful attempt to prevent it.

It was predictable, but it wasn’t reasonable.

Once Viktor knew how he would react, once he understood the impulses that preceded the attacks, he was able to prepare himself. He became able to point out the figure of crushing loneliness as it strolled into his subconscious and point it in the direction of the figurative door. Thanks for coming, but now is not your time. Even then, the unwelcome stranger seldom left without making its presence felt, without clawing at the doorframe and scratching its urgency on the walls of Viktor’s throat.

Sometimes, the petals would simply show up later, flooding out as he tried to shower or shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Sometimes they never came, but the weight that hung in the hollow of Viktor’s chest grew that much heavier and more cumbersome, and the fear that accompanied it was almost more unbearable than the cleansing fits he was suppressing.

Therapy was early in the day, but for all the energy it took, Viktor was often confined to his apartment for the rest of the day following. He’d lay in bed and listen to the shimmering trills of his neighbor’s piano piece, to Yuri shuffling around cursing and grumbling when he came to take Makkachin out. Poor Yuri didn’t know yet. No one did, although Viktor knew those he’d worked closely with up until now had their suspicions. 

* * *

  
  


“Jesus, get up.” A burst of white-hot light signaled the curtains being thrown aside as the duvet was yanked off of Viktor’s body. “Are you sick or just lazy!?”

Squinting against the sun, Viktor sat up, drawing a sweaty palm over his face. It must have still been afternoon. “Always a pleasure, Yuri,” he groaned. “By what providence do I find you barging into my bedroom?”

“Wow, ok, fuck you too,” the teen spat, picking discarded clothes up off the floor and chucking them into the laundry before dropping down on the corner of the bed. “I just… whatever. You know what? Nevermind.”

He stood to go, teen angst dripping from the downturned corners of his lips. That thin-pressed line was so strikingly familiar it made Viktor start. Combined with Yuri’s lithe figure and spiteful attitude, it evoked a spitting image of Lilia.

“I was gonna tell you your neighbor was asking about you. Left you some food—some sort of weird pelmeni. I ate half of them since you hardly eat anymore.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Viktor hummed. His lips and the inside of his mouth stuck together as he spoke, dry and dehydrated from an overheated sleep.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you should say thank you at least?”

“Ah—yeah. Thanks, Yura.”

Yuri’s boot was off and hurtling across the room faster than blinking; it was a good thing his aim was so poor or Viktor might have had signature Doc Martens treads stamped into his forehead.

“Not me, you idiot!” the teen roared. He seemed to immediately regret his choice as he hobbled back toward the bed. He held out a sheepish hand and Viktor graciously returned the shoe. He’d have hell from Yakov if he tried to fight fire with fire with the single most mercurial skater on the Russian team. “Just… I don’t know. He likes your dog. Maybe go introduce yourself or something. It’s the least you can do.”

“You make a good point.” Viktor let his legs roll off the side of the bed and teetered to standing. The air was cool against his bare skin as he dragged himself to the door in nothing but his briefs, scratching at the stubble that was bordering on unruly on the side of his face. “I’ll just go do that now.”

“Ew, stop, you fucking perv,” Yuri whined, and it surprised Viktor how quickly he managed to put himself between him and the door. They always bantered like this together at the rink; it was Viktor’s way of seasoning the kid into a good competitor. He really did admire Yuri’s drive and determination. But something in the crimson that was blossoming under fiery green eyes told him that Yura did not look upon his jokes quite as fondly. 

“See, this is why I can’t ask you to do shit. You’re such a fucking child,” Yuri spat. “To think I was going to come here and ask if you would still choreograph my short program. Fuck that. Die lonely, then, idiot. Next time I’m here, I’ll tell the neighbor to give it up.”

Thick, velvety paper in Viktor’s throat choked out any apologies or compromises he might have offered. As he fought to find that image that he could willingly discard, as he fought to remove his feelings from his narrative, he watched as Yuri jammed his foot back into his untied boot and stormed off through the front door.

**Author's Note:**

> This was created in collaboration with Rettlecake for the Viktuuri Angst Bang 2019! Better posting late than never... We've been so excited to share this with you for so long, and our lives have finally gotten themselves out of the way!! If you haven't already, be sure to go to the event collection listed at the top of the page and read all of the other great collabs that came out of this bang. For a fandom that is STILL waiting for news on IceAdo, we sure do make some amazing works. Get your tissues ready!!
> 
> The only social media I really use anymore is [Twitter](http://twitter.com/snarkybreeze).
> 
> You can find Rettlecake on [Tumblr](http://rettlecake.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/rettlecake) as well!
> 
> And you can always go back and brows promos and pieces on the [Viktuuri Angst Bang tumblr!](http://viktuuriangstbang.tumblr.com)
> 
> Shares, comments, and kudos are always welcomed and appreciated!


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